


King David

by Carbon65



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Canon Era, Canon Jewish Character, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Do not post on another site, Gen, Labor Unions, POV Second Person, Strike - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 07:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21032759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbon65/pseuds/Carbon65
Summary: You grew up hearing the story of David and Goliath, of the brave shepherd boy who faced down a giant with a lyre and a slingshot. But lately, you’ve been hearing more about David, about how he was an outlaw and a coward. You wonder who you’re going to be, which David you’re going to be. The World is about to change, your world has changed, and you stand on the edge of a precipice.





	King David

**Author's Note:**

  * For [therudestflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therudestflower/gifts).

> This is basically an attempt at writing second person that doesn't suck. Because The Rudest Flower said I couldn't.
> 
> So, here's a gift.
> 
> (Also, this is for Newsietober 2019, except that I think I first published it on Tumblr in August, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)

You grew up hearing the story of David and Goliath, of the brave shepherd boy who faced down a giant with a lyre and a slingshot. Of David the great king, who won a war and united his country. Of David, G-d’s beloved. But lately, you’ve been hearing more about David, about how he was an outlaw and a coward and he slept with a married woman and had her husband killed to cover it up. You wonder who you’re going to be, which David you’re going to be. The World is about to change, your world has changed, and you stand on the edge of a precipice.

The voices around you shout words that don’t make sense in your head. The English buzzes against the languages you grew up with: Yiddish and Hebrew and Polish and it makes your headache. You’re too overwhelmed to understand the words, caught at the eye of a malstrom of confusion and desperation. You want to let yourself slip away into that storm as well. You want to curse, to complain, to ask G-d why this and why now and why you?  
You don’t know if you’ll get an answer. You’re not sure if G-d is there, let alone listening.

A few words make it through. “If we don’t sell paps, nobody sells paps!”

“What, like a strike?” Your mouth asks before your brain can process it. Your mouth has always been good at doing that, not asking your brain for permission first. You blame Sarah. She’s the one who listened with rapt attention when Mrs Greenstein upstairs talks about Barondess’ strike. She is the one who drags you to you AFL and SLP meetings under the guise of visiting school friends, she is the one who reads _Fraye arbeter shtime_, she is the one who spoke after your father was first fired, her fire was what helped get you kicked out of high school. You hear your sister as soon as the words are out of your mouth, and you would give anything to take them back.

“Yeah, like a strike!” One of the voices criers back. 

You think it belongs to Jack, maybe. Or Racetrack. Or boots. Or… you don’t know half these boys name or why they’re called that. They’re loud and smelly and half of them speak in a language of grunts, breaths, curses, swallowed english and enunciated gibberish. 

“Strike, strike, strike!” The mass of boys echo like a greek chorus.

“Are you out of your mind?” The question is more for yourself than anyone else. “We can’t go on strike, we don’t have a union!” 

Jack pushes his way over beside you and stands there, so close he could touch you. He stands and he looms and he doesn’t touch you. He won’t let you touch him either. He’s like a coiled snake, ready to strike. He wears his anger on the surface and his fear buried underneath and you wear yours deep inside and a cool exterior. It’s the best way, you think, your yarmulke heavy in your pocket. Your fear sits closer to the surface and your anger is a vast pool of lava underneath.

“But if we strike, we’ll be a union!” 

No, no, if you strike you’re just a bunch of angry kids with no money and no way to feed your families. You’re just a bunch of boys playing at being grown ups. Except you know you will face real grown up consequences, you know you’re not children. And, the future stretches out in front of you. No finishing high school and going to keep books somewhere. No keeping Sarah out of trouble until she’s married and making sure that Les finishes school too. No quiet work. No, just unions and rebellion and prison.

It’s tempting. It’s so tempting, like the accidental glimpse of Zeborah, Sarah’s best friend, outlined through thin lace curtains. You could do it, just say the word, screw the consequences. You don’t live in a world of prophets and biblical kings, just profits and robber barons. 

And so, you say yes. You guess you’re a union.


End file.
